She rose to her feet, started backing into the living room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two figures emerge from the blackness of the trees. Gage held a gun to the back of Heath’s head. They walked slowly toward the path that ringed the lagoon. There was no time to call anyone now, Maureen thought. Everything was on her.
She strode forward, gun out in front of her, the same way she’d marched on the white van on Esplanade Avenue. She jumped down off the porch, landed as lightly as she could, never taking her eyes from the two men. She kept walking forward, chin up, shoulders back. She kept her gun trained on Leon Gage. Too tough a shot from as far away as she was, especially in the dark. Gage had his arm out, digging his gun, Maureen guessed, into the back of Heath’s head. She didn’t want an accidental, panicked trigger pull taking out his hostage. She’d seen enough splattered brains for one day. She fought the urge to call out to Gage. She needed control of the situation. She’d have one try at it. The longer she waited, the better.
She was closer now. The men were stepping out from under the trees, their skin turning silver under the lamps lining the jogging path. Gage was running his mouth again, an angry snarl, at the back of Heath’s head. Heath held his hands in the air. Even from yards away, Maureen could see him shaking.
Off to the right of the two men, Maureen could see the bench where she’d talked to Preacher about the FBI only days ago. Where he’d warned her to stay away from Solomon Heath. Extenuating circumstances, Preach, she thought. She was sure he’d understand. Ducks slept under the bench, their heads tucked under their wings. Maureen passed through the darkness and came out into the lamplight. Gage forced Heath to his knees, lowered the gun to the back of his head, still talking, talking, talking. He was talking about his dead son. If he’d shut up for even a beat, Maureen thought, he’d surely have heard her approaching.
“Do not fucking move,” she shouted. “Gun down, hands in the air.”
Gage turned to face her. The gun he held to the back of Heath’s head did not move. “Why are you here?” he asked Maureen. “This is business between men. Old, old business.”
“I’m making it my business,” Maureen said. “Back away from Mr. Heath and set that gun in the grass.” She took two steps closer. She had a good shot if she wanted it. Gage wore his Carhartt jacket. There was no telling what he had in his pockets. She thought about grenades. “I want both your hands where I can see them, Gage. Now. Right now.”
“I raised an army for him,” Gage said, “and he left me in the wilderness. He destroyed my only son. He owes me.”
“I don’t care,” Maureen said. “Put down the gun and get on your knees with your hands behind your head. Nobody wants to hear you talk.”
If there was anyone she’d get a medal for gunning down, Maureen thought, here he was. But was that the kind of hero she wanted to be? Because, she thought, here also was the head of the Watchmen, wanted by the FBI, by the NOPD. He knew the Watchmen’s plans. Shit, he made their plans. He knew what they had planned next. Taking him alive would save lives. Many lives. And she had him caught. He had nowhere to go. She’d held her fire earlier that day. She could do it again. Then his gun hand whipped right at her.
Maureen squeezed off two rounds, and blew Leon Gage off his feet.
Heath ran screaming into the water.
Bird Island erupted into a deafening, squawking riot. Shrieks and beating wings filled the night sky. Maureen marched toward Gage, who rolled around in the grass, moaning in pain. He rose to one knee, drooping, fighting for breath. He still held his gun.
Maureen knew she’d hit him, put two rounds right in his ribs. She raised her weapon, sighted his chest. Center mass this time. He needed convincing, this one. She was right on top of him now. “Gage, drop that fucking gun.”
His elbow bent, his gun hand moved again. But Gage wasn’t raising the weapon at her this time, Maureen realized. He was going for his own head. Oh, fuck no.
She jumped forward and stomped on his arm at the elbow, knocking Gage onto his back, the joint breaking under her boot. His gun tumbled from his hand and into the lagoon. Maureen held her balance as Gage squirmed in rage and pain under her foot. She tested his ribs with her other foot. He wore body armor, which was why her first two shots hadn’t killed him. Which was exactly what she’d hoped for when she’d shot him in the chest and not the head. She moved her right foot from his elbow to his throat, applying pressure until he quit moving. He grabbed at her ankle, but he had no strength left in him.
“You know what I decided?” Maureen asked him. “No one else dies today.”
In his flailing, Gage had lost his glasses. His blue eyes blazed up at Maureen, enraged. She saw in them all that fierce, undying hate that Heath had talked about. She never wanted her eyes to look like that.
Hey, she thought, speaking of Heath …